


John Watson, M.D.

by afterallthistennant



Category: Sherlock - Fandom, johnlock - Fandom
Genre: Angst, BBC Sherlock - Freeform, Doctor John Watson, Feels, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Sherlock Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-11
Updated: 2013-06-11
Packaged: 2017-12-14 15:33:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/838517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/afterallthistennant/pseuds/afterallthistennant





	John Watson, M.D.

John awoke to a loud blast, and threw himself from his cot. He found himself immediately in the standing position, and throwing on his shirt and boots. Before he was even completely awake he found himself in the Operating Room working on soldiers. He was tired but he knew the routine, get as many wounded through as he could during the rush, anyone that could wait for major surgeries would have to do so. He was back in action, although he admittedly couldn’t do as much as when he was younger, it was the only thing he could think of to do. Sherlock was gone, he tried to stay in 221B but he found that it was haunted by Sherlock’s presence. So he travelled to foreign countries in war, and helped with their wounded. He had contacts in the military, and travelling as help to the army doctors kept him busy. If Sherlock could make up a profession, then John could do the same, as long as it kept him busy.

Tonight was no different from any other, the endless stream of wounded people. It always pained John the most when the wounded were young. It was tragic to see men and women who could have been future teachers, writers, and scientists, crumble to bits physically and psychologically. He was working diligently into the early hours of the morning when the last wounded soldier was carried in. He only had minor wounds, a small amount of shrapnel in his arm, he didn’t need anesthesia, so he sat on the table while John worked under a strong light. The boy made something stir in John, and that stirring pained him, made his leg twinge with pain, made his hand twitch with pain-filled memories. John knew it was because the boy had Sherlock’s dark curly locks, and he found it hard not to remember the feel of Sherlock’s curls running through his fingers in the lust-filled hours of the night.

John’s hand shook as he finished stitching up the boy’s arm. This was the most John had thought about Sherlock since he plummeted to his death two years ago. John was quickly becoming overwhelmed, so when he was finished with the soldier he went outside to get some air. The night was humid and warm, but anything was better than the stuffy operating room. Images of Sherlock Holmes flooded his senses, and for the first time in months he gave in. He saw Sherlock’s face swimming in his vision. Every muscle, every bump, every hair, was as clear as if Sherlock was in front of John. John’s hand twitched, but it was a pleasant situation. His hand felt warm, he could swear Sherlock’s hand was tucked safely in his, rather than six feet under the ground, but it was just the ghost of a feeling. John took a deep breath, but was given no release, instead his nostrils flared with the scent of Sherlock, who always seemed to smell like mint, cheap soap, and a hint of strange chemicals. The wind blew the scent away but with it brought the whispering voice of John’s lover. The wind blew through from the east and John swore he could hear Sherlock whispering the sweet things he only said into John’s ears. It tickled and made the hairs on his neck stand up. John closed his eyes, he couldn’t take this anymore. He turned off the filter in his head and gave in, letting the last of Sherlock overwhelm him. He envisioned Sherlock’s lips crushing against his, he could taste the detective's lips. It was sweet, and gave him a headache. This felt wonderful, even if it was his imagination, John would handle the misery later, because this was heaven to him. John reveled in this dream, Sherlock was with him in that moment and it was perfect.  
                John’s thoughts were interrupted by a sudden blast, and he knew there was an explosion nearby. He ran into the recovery center to check on his patients, and found the Sherlock look-alike sitting straight up in his bad, eyes on full alert. The young man’s eyes met John’s and John allowed himself the satisfaction of imagining it was actually Sherlock. John could tell the explosions were getting closer, so he told his patients to stay calm. He looked at his patient and saw that he was abnormally pale and a sheen of sweat glazed his forehead. He put his hand against the soldiers and it was evident the boy had a fever, John began to worry that the boy had an infection, but then he saw something in the man’s eyes as he began to shake. This was no ordinary case of PTSD, there was something else going on.  He looked at the boys charts and saw that the boy was diagnosed with epilepsy. The boy was on the way to the airfield to return home due to his medical condition when he was injured. He was going home. The boy jerked suddenly and fell to the floor. John could not pick the boy up on his own, so he grabbed the pillow from the bed and put it under the young man’s head. The boy shook and shook. Seeing Sherlock’s look-alike laying on the ground and convulsing, brought great pain to john. His vision shook, and he couldn’t see straight. The scene before him flashed between the Sherlock look-alike, and the real Sherlock, both lying twisted on the ground. John himself began to shake and tears fell from his face, he couldn’t take this. This was too much. He couldn’t watch the light go from Sherlock’s eyes again. But soon it was over, the Sherlock boy twitched once more, and then his body was still. He was dead. John threw himself over the body and sobbed. He allowed this boy to die because he looked like his soul mate, He couldn’t save an innocent person, because Sherlock haunted him. John stood up and walked out of the room, ignoring the cries of the other doctors. He walked out of the room and threw up. He fell to his knees, and the world swirled around him. Sherlock was there, the center point of John’s circles. John didn’t care that the world was exploding around him. He didn’t want to be here without Sherlock. He knew then that he would never be able to exist without his soul mate. His feelings for Sherlock and Sherlock’s death got in the way and he couldn’t even save a young soldier from dying in a pool of his own tears, saliva, blood, and vomit. John hated himself, he hated the boy for bringing Sherlock back to him. He hated Sherlock for dying, but he hated the universe for tearing them apart. John knew he couldn’t do this anymore, and as the explosions reached their climax, so close that john heard the triggers of large artillery clicking somewhere nearby, John walked forward. He walked towards the danger. Thinking of Sherlock, If Sherlock could end his life then so could he.  John walked forward and in his head Sherlock was with him. He was ready, he wouldn’t live without Sherlock. And then the enemy was near enough. John knew it was coming, and in his last breath he said one word, the word that he hadn’t said in almost two years. It was sweet and bitter at the same time. It tingled his lips, and it overwhelmed his heart as he said it. Right before the bullet smashed his chest to pieces, he whispered, “ _Sherlock_ ”, and fell to his death.

…

Sherlock Holmes was a liar, a cheat, and a terrible person. He read the obituary of John Watson from the safety of his hotel room in a remote part of Wyoming in the United States. He had been hiding there for nearly 2 years, only Lestrade knew where he was, so when the news hit London of John’s death, a letter arrived in record time. Sherlock read the paper, and from then on he knew he was the most despicable person in this miserable world. He had planned to return to London on a redeye flight that very evening. He couldn’t hide any longer. He needed his army doctor. But once he read this, Sherlock knew he wouldn’t make his flight. He knew that he couldn’t live any longer. This time as he made his way to the roof the 10 story hotel, he knew he would really die, there would be no miraculous return. He stepped on the ledge and whispered one word before he took his last leap of faith. He whispered, “ _John_ ”, and felt the rush of the wind in his face, drying his tears; his last tears before there was nothing.


End file.
